I'd Say I'm Sorry
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: He can see the other man's heart breaking, the raw emotions sparking in those eyes. Sherlock will never understand because he will never be given a chance to. It's agony, to know what he's doing, but he can't stop it. He says nothing more.
1. A Possibly Amazing Morning

**A/N: I was going to wait on posting this, but I've kind of decided not to. This is a fic very much like Playing With Life in format and I believe you all will like it. :) I hope you do, anyway. Another epic adventure for our favorite two characters. Please note, this is NOT the sequel to Playing With Life. This is completely unrelated. I also can't promise daily updates on this one, sorry. :( Anyway, enjoy.**

"Is it possible to be less you?

"God, I can't stand you. I really can't. I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Not anymore. You could go die for all I care."

He can see the other man's heart breaking, the raw emotions sparking in those eyes. But he says nothing more, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. He cannot say anything more. Sherlock will never understand because he will never be given a chance to. It's agony, to know what he's doing, but he can't stop it.

He's just another pawn in the great game of chess. Chess was never his favourite game as a child, but even so he's been caught up in it with no way out. He can't stop himself. His mouth is running and his mind is turning but no matter which way he looks, there is no escape. And he is scared to the very core of himself, scared to death because he knows exactly what's going to happen.

Sherlock Holmes is going to take what he's said to heart.

If John can't prevent it, he will kill himself.

* * *

_One week ago_

"Sherlock, really, tell me you didn't use all the milk again," John griped, frowning in equal parts amusement and frustration. He let out a sigh and slammed the fridge door shut a bit too hard, causing even himself to jump. Really, he'd woken up this morning in such a great mood. The sun had shined through the only window in his room (he'd been surprised considering the amount of dust coating that window), and he'd woken up to the warm sunshine on his face. It had been nice. And now this. No milk for his tea. What a way to ruin a possibly amazing morning.

Well, at least it was much better than being woken up by Sherlock in the middle of the night - the man could be so trying! He seemed to have taken to waking John up with no regard for normal human sleeping patterns. His tool of choice varied by day: loud violin playing, crashes in the kitchen, smoke due to an experiment, simply yelling or staring because he was bored, or, worst yet, throwing water over the bed. Tea or no tea, he'd take this wakeup over that one any day.

"I needed it," the monotone voice of his friend called back. "Experiment on the counter. Watch out for that, don't knock it over. Possibly deadly fumes. While it would be nice to know the exact effects, I'd rather not test it on you."

For a moment, John actually felt a bit comforted in this thought. It was good to know that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't kill you intentionally, or at least didn't want you dead. A soft smile found its place on his face and he stood for a moment in the entrance to the sitting room, examining his flatmate. Sherlock was on the couch - as he always was - in the very awkward way that only he could find comfortable. His head back and long limbs flung out in each and every direction, Sherlock actually looked… peaceful. Odd for a man like him. Still, John had known him long enough to have seen the more 'peaceful' side of him before.

"Nice to know," John nodded after a few moments, still watching his flatmate, who had taken to blinking rapidly at the ceiling. He frowned but continued anyway, "So, any texts from Lestrade? You can't tell me he doesn't have another murder on his hands yet. It's been, what, three weeks?"

"Too long," Sherlock deadpanned. He glared at the ceiling instead of John, startled when a loud beep sounded from his pocket. "Speak of the devil."

"I had my suspicions, but I never thought… y'know, Lestrade, the devil?" The humour was lost on the consulting detective. He was very absorbed in his phone, frowning as he read, before his fingers began to fly across the miniature keyboard. After all the time living with Sherlock, the speed at which he could text still shocked John, whose technical skills were often a bit slower and more limited.

"Murder… interesting," Sherlock muttered, talking more to himself than John. "But that doesn't make sense… he says it's an easy one… they've already figured it out. So why are they calling us in?"

"Nothing better to do than check it out, then?" John suggested, smiling as he pulled his coat over his shoulders.

Oh, how wrong he was.

**A/N: Oooh, let's see where this goes from here. :)**


	2. I'm Watching You

**A/N: Chapter 2 for you all. :) Thanks to 98Shaddowolff98 for reviewing, and thanks to anyone else who's read this so far. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

**I don't own Sherlock. Depressing, isn't it?**

The body of a young woman was laid out in a back alley, surrounded by rundown fences and piles of garbage. Shadows partially masked her, only the pale outline visible. It would be so easy to miss, even in the daytime. Obviously this spot had been picked beforehand and the position of the body had been deliberate - but Scotland Yard already knew this. The woman's body wasn't even there anymore; Sherlock was staring at a picture.

"What's this?" he asked impatiently, waving the picture a bit like a flag. "If you've figured it out, why am I here? Don't tell me… another bomber, out to kill me?"

"You do seem to get a lot of those, but that's too predictable for Moriarty," John grinned in amusement before pointedly quoting Sherlock, "because that would be 'dull.' He wants to be entertained, remember? You're not the only one who gets _bored._"

Sherlock snorted. Lestrade frowned, taking the picture from the consulting detective's hand. He examined it for a few moments himself before flipping it over and laying it face-down on the desk between them. Carefully, he reached for a rather unbalanced lamp and flicked it on, revealing it to be installed with… a blacklight? Odd, in any situation, but especially odd here. On the flimsy paper, the words now stood out like fireworks in the night. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit and he leaned forward, rapidly reading.

"I SEE YOU SHERLOCK. AGAIN. DO YOU SEE ME?

OF COURSE YOU DON'T. NEVER FORGET, I'M WATCHING YOU. ALL OF YOU. ;)

GOOD LUCK, DEAR!"

Sherlock reread the message about three times before he leaned back, folding his pale hands under his face. He closed his eyes, deep in thought. Lestrade only allowed him a moment of this, studying the detective as the detective had studied the photo. Thousands of emotions had flashed on Sherlock's face in mere seconds: confusion to realization and back again, to be replaced by (could it be?) fear, amusement, irritation and finally back to 'neutral.' His bright blue eyes sprung open at this last emotion.

"…Care to explain?" Lestrade tapped the photo carefully, staring at it for a long moment before switching his gaze back to the consulting detective. Even John looked curious as to what the answer would be. Well, of course he would be curious, this was an obvious threat to Sherlock and _that_ was never taken lightly by the doctor.

"It's a warning, obviously," he informed them in a very calm voice for a man threatened via a picture of a murder. "The killer left this on the body, didn't he? You didn't take the picture, otherwise the words wouldn't be there. No fingerprints, he's too smart for that. He wants me to take this as a personal warning… He's bored, he wants to play again. Typical. Predictable. That in its self is dull.

"But it's not a direct threat to me. It's to the people around me. Hence "All of you" - if not for this I would've thought he was planning on killing me. But no, that'd be boring. He wants to see me dance again, he wants me to come out to play. But he doesn't specify who's first. Protection detail should be established on the more harmless people around me. Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, perhaps even yourself."

"Lestrade? _Harmless_?" John scoffed at this. As amazed as he was by Sherlock's deductions, he could never picture the DI being harmless. One wouldn't get far in their field if they didn't learn how to save as well as harm.

"And how do you know that no one in this office wrote that picture? It wasn't brought to my attention until after we left the scene," as much as Lestrade hated to admit it, there were flaws within Scotland Yard. He couldn't really imagine anyone wanting to work with Moriarty, and the rookie who'd brought him the picture (_after_ they'd left the scene of the crime, no less) had been reprimanded, but the possibility remained.

"Possible but not probable. Moriarty doesn't want to end the game too quickly. Placing an operative in Scotland Yard will make me immediately suspicious and he knows it. I'd have the person figured out in minutes. He's quite aware of this. And look, there's a bit of blood on the photograph itself. Meaning, left on the body, possibly as she was still dying and unable to move. Likely the new member of Scotland Yard is an idiot and forgot to bring this to you. Fire him, he's a terrible addition to your team and I'd have a dreadful time working with him."

"Right, thanks for the tip," Lestrade rolled his eyes. It was already well known that Sherlock disliked just about anyone who worked for Scotland Yard - and if he didn't dislike them, then he sure as hell liked to bait them and make them look like idiots. The Detective Inspector was partially an exception (partially not, as Sherlock had made him look like an idiot many times) but he could deal with being a median. Much better than being like Anderson; the man never knew when to stop.

"So, what do we do next, then?" John asked tentatively, stepping forward. If he hadn't spoken right then everyone in the room might've forgotten about him.

Sherlock's face twisted. It looked as though he couldn't decide which would be more appropriate: to throw up or simply frown in his disgust. After all, it was well known that his patience wasn't exactly the greatest. It took a lot of effort for him to (grudgingly) confess, "We wait."


End file.
